


Pressure

by mshakarios



Series: Table For Three (Themmus Fics) [3]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Polyamory, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Trauma, backstory-related angst, my shep is a mess, trauma from being forced to kill in self-defense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 14:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15051293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mshakarios/pseuds/mshakarios
Summary: Emmett's dreams have a nasty habit of bringing back some of the most traumatic events in his life. His lovers can't make the dreams go away, but they do their best to comfort him when he needs it.(Warning for semi-graphic flashback violence, descriptions of killing in self-defense, and violent transphobia from a parent. Heavy angst, with a dollop of hurt/comfort. Polyam Thane/M!Shep/Garrus, like pretty much everything I write.)(Newly updated to reflect changes in Emmett's backstory)





	Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Mmmmmmmm I have no idea when this takes place, so don't ask me. Was having some unrelated trauma flashbacks of my own yesterday, and everyone knows that the healthiest way to cope with trauma is to write your OC going through something even worse than you did, so you can feel good by comparison. It ended up turning into a Thane/Em/Garrus thing, because of course it did. Enjoy these sad gentle boys. 
> 
> (But yeah seriously if you're trans like me and reading about violent transphobia from parents bothers you, skip this one because it's uhhhhh heavy. Like, attempted-murder heavy.)

He is there again. 

The scene is vague, warped slightly over the years by his faulty human memory; he cannot quite remember the color of the walls, the precise placement of the furniture, the exact titles of the magazines that littered the kitchen countertops. But these things are unimportant; he may not remember the room exactly, but he can never forget what _happened_ in that room, no matter how hard he tries. And so when he finds himself in this vaguely-imagined room, where the walls are a generic shade of tan and the tables and chairs seem to subtly shift places every moment and he cannot quite discern the names of the magazines on the countertop even when he examines them closely, he feels that familiar sense of helpless dread settle into his gut and knows, in a fraction of an instant, exactly where he is. 

He thinks a lot about this incident in his waking hours, poring obsessively over the things he could have done differently. He could have set up the meeting in a public place, somewhere safer and more familiar, with plenty of bystanders. He could have just called, avoiding meeting the man face-to-face, providing himself the safety of being able to end the call in an instant if things got violent. ( _When_ things got violent, he thinks to himself. He remembers this man too well to entertain any kind of optimism.) Better yet, he could have just left him alone, and none of this would have ever happened. He hadn’t needed to prove anything to his father. 

He hadn’t seen Owen Wagner in years, not since he was freed from his birth parents’ custody and adopted into the Shepard family. Emmett was still a child then, called by a different name and just starting to figure out the man he would grow up to be. His new adoptive mothers Hannah and Natalie and their three children had been unflinchingly accepting of him, helping him try out new names and styles of presentation that made him feel more comfortable and backing him passionately once he was finally sure of himself.

Thinking back on it, Emmett wishes that this had been enough for him. That he had been content with the unwavering acceptance and love of his adoptive family, and had not allowed himself to seek out the approval of his birth parents, despite knowing deep down in his gut what the reaction would be. He wishes he had not been so optimistic, so unable to realize that Owen Wagner’s inevitable response to meeting his child as a son for the first time would be neither understanding nor accepting. And more than anything, he wishes he hadn’t taken a transport down to Earth that day, setting foot on humanity’s birthplace for the first time in his life, and taken a cab to the rural country address where all available data said his estranged father now lived, completely alone after the divorce from Jeannie. If he had not done any of this, perhaps he would not still be having these horrible nightmares so many years later. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that this is a dream. He usually does, at least partially. But this knowledge does nothing to make it less real, or to calm the churning sense of trepidation inside him, just as strong as it was on that day. He knows what is about to happen, one way or another, and it sickens him. 

Sometimes, the dreams start off slowly, more akin to what really happened on that fateful day on Earth. He speaks to his father for a while first, nervously trying to explain himself, to explain the general masculine silhouette of his body, the light red stubble that grows from his newly stronger jawline, and the other noticeable effects of his hormone replacement therapy. (Natalie Shepard, a trans woman herself, had wasted no time in taking her adopted son to a doctor to start the process of getting him a hormone prescription. For fourteen-year-old Emmett, this had been a godsend, and after four years on testosterone, the masculinizing effects had made themselves obvious.) Sometimes, however, the dreams waste no time in getting to the most traumatic parts of the event, skipping past the half-hour of back-and-forth furious yelling and desperate pleading and cutting straight to the moment where Owen finally loses his temper and comes at his son with a pistol, the intent to kill raging unmistakably in his eyes. 

Tonight’s dream, as it turns out, is an example of the latter.

Emmett hears his own involuntary scream, as if it is coming from someone else standing by his side, when the first shot hits him in the shoulder. He is trapped, terrified, frozen in shock by the blast likely intended for his heart or head or some more vital area, his life saved only by the anger that makes his father’s hand shake violently as he squeezes the trigger. Like always, his dream’s replications of the pain and the fear and the shock are disturbingly, viscerally exact. He is being shot in his father’s kitchen again, every bit as real as it was the first time it happened. The choked-off sob of desperation he makes is born of true fear as Owen steps closer to him, beginning to line up a second shot. 

It is at this point, both during the real trauma and during the horrific replication his mind has created, that Emmett’s fight-or-flight instincts kick in. There is a visceral, primitive part of him that instinctively knows he is going to die here if he does not take action, and so he stumbles towards his father, crossing the kitchen as he attempts to ignore the urgent pain in his shoulder. He is halfway there when the second shot grazes his side, Owen’s anger once again skewing its aim and luckily missing any vital organs, but leaving him with an acute, slashing pain across his hip. He knows in this moment that his only chance of leaving this room alive is stopping his father, somehow knocking him unconscious or at least getting the gun out of his hand long enough to make a run for it. He lunges forward, closing the rest of the distance between them as fast as his legs will carry him, and in his unthinking desperation, he gives Owen one hard shove, biotic energy flaring up involuntarily in his hands and increasing the force of the impact to slightly superhuman levels. His only thought is of survival, of knocking Owen away from him, even if it only gives him the slightest hint of an edge. 

He is not prepared for the way his father is thrown back violently by the sheer force of the shove, or for the way the back of his head collides with the kitchen counter, breaking his neck with a sickening crack, sending him crumpling to the floor like a ragdoll as the pistol falls from his limp, dying hand. Nothing in the universe could have prepared him for that.

This is around the time he usually wakes up. Standing over his father’s body, frozen in horror as the reality of what has just happened slowly dawns on him. The long, terrible moment that seems to drag on in slow motion as he realizes what he has done. 

He has murdered his father. And it is with this realization that Emmett wakes up with a start, as he has on so many nights before this one.

The dreams usually do not include the aftermath of the incident, but as he lies in bed, he somehow always finds himself dwelling on it anyway. After he has frantically called the local authorities and explained the situation as best he can through his fearful stammers and horrified sobs, and has been taken to the local station so they can collect his statement, he is reassured by an officer that “murdered” is not the correct word for what he has done. He acted in self-defense, the injuries to his shoulder and hip are proof enough of that. Owen Wagner has developed a reputation in this small rural community as a violent, angry man, and the notion of him lashing out and attempting to murder his estranged child is in no way out of character to any of the officers, who have repeatedly had to arrest him over the past few years for violent outbursts of rage. They tell Emmett that he is free to go after his statement is taken, but this does nothing to calm the profound sense of horror he feels. 

He has killed his father. It was an accident, his only options were to kill or be killed, but this does not change anything in his mind. Regardless of the circumstances, regardless of the technical legality of his actions, he has taken his father’s life. He has felt the man’s tense, anger-filled body against his hands in the split second in which his shove collided, and he has heard the horrific crack of his neck snapping as he fell back against the kitchen counter. And now that he has experienced these things, he knows that he can never be the same again. 

He lies in bed now, so lost in his thoughts that he is only vaguely aware of the sweat that slicks his body, the loud, heavy breathing that fills the darkened room, and the way his entire form still trembles involuntarily at the stress of reliving his trauma. He does not notice as his lovers stir on either side of him, and it is only when their hands are suddenly on him, cool scaled fingers rubbing soothing circles into his back and one hard, sharp talon tenderly stroking his hair, that he remembers he is not alone. He tries to suppress a sob, and mostly succeeds, turning it into a shuddering little whimper that tells his two lovers all they need to know. 

“Hey, it’s alright….you’re safe now, Em, it’s not real….” Garrus leans in close and rests his forehead against Emmett’s in a comforting “kiss” as he tries to speak as soothingly as possible, his subvocals taking on that soft, almost purring quality that he saves only for nights like this. His hand is still in Emmett’s hair, claws gently combing through the sleepily disheveled ginger mess, and Emmett leans into his touch eagerly, trying to ground himself in the reality of the men on either side of him, the feeling of their touch on his skin. Garrus is right, he is safe; he is curled up in a warm bed between the two men he loves, not standing frozen with fear in a stark, tiny kitchen over the corpse of his father. He is here, and he is safe, and they love him. 

“If you would like to talk about it, Siha, you know we would be happy to listen.” Thane murmurs from behind him, his hands continuing to stroke Emmett’s broad back in soothing patterns. Emmett leans back, feeling the comforting pressure of the drell’s lithe body against his own, and Thane’s arms move to wrap around him, pulling them into the spooning position that he knows Emmett loves. 

“It was….y’know….the fuckin’ thing with my dad again.” Emmett speaks softly as he pulls Garrus in close as well, locking himself securely in the embrace of his two alien lovers. “When I….well, you know.” He has told them about this before. They know. 

“We’re here for you, Em. You didn’t do anything wrong, the bastard deserved it.”

“But I still killed him! It was still wrong!” The irony of saying this while lying in the embrace of an accomplished assassin and a trigger-happy former vigilante is not lost on him, and he quickly fumbles for a different argument. “God, I just don’t know why I’m still so fucked up over this. I-I mean, it….it was just….”

“It was traumatic.” Thane finishes for him. “You were a child.”

“I was eighteen! That’s an adult, at least by human standards. And hell, that’s no excuse, you told me you were _twelve_ the first time you killed someone! _You_ were a child, and it didn’t have this effect on you!”

“I had trained for it for years. I made my first kill after years of preparing, years of knowing what my body was being trained to do. I knew my purpose. You had no warning, no time to prepare.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Emmett, he didn’t give you a choice.” Garrus speaks up, cutting him off. “You didn’t see it coming. It happened fast, and you had to make a hard decision, and that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you, for better or worse.” 

“I just….I keep thinking about how I could have done it differently.”

“What, how you could have died? You said he would have killed you if you hadn’t fought back.” Garrus’s mandibles flicker with distress as he speaks. “Don’t even make me _think_ about living in a galaxy without you in it, Em. You made a quick decision to stay alive, and it was worth it. You’re here now, and you’re safe. So it was the right thing.”

“Then why do I feel so fucking _guilty_?!” He buries his face in his hands. “Why can I still _see it_ and _feel it_? Why do I keep having fucking nightmares about it, and making both of y’all have to wake up and comfort me like a fucking _child_ every time, because I’ve killed more people than I can count but for some reason my brain wants to keep me up at night over _just this one_?!”

By the time he finishes speaking, his voice has become a frantic yell, and as his final sentence comes to its loud, frustrated end, the silence hangs heavily over the cabin for several long moments.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m fucked up like this. Neither of you should have to deal with me, and all the bullshit I keep putting you through.”

Thane holds him closer, his lips moving to Emmett’s ear as he speaks gently.

“We love you, Siha. It hurts both of us to see you like this. Anything we can do to help you is more than worth it.”

“And we don’t ‘deal with’ you. You’re not a problem. We’re with you because we want to be; don’t forget that.”

Emmett nods weakly, and makes a conscious effort to ease the tension in his body and relax into their embrace. Two pairs of arms are secured tightly around him as he melts against his lovers, and his chest aches with love for both of them. He is sad and fucked up and damaged, but so are they, in their own ways. He is grateful that the three of them have found each other, no matter what might happen next. 

“I love you both….just so fuckin’ much….”

“We love you too, Em. Try to get some sleep.”


End file.
